by Paul Cwalina
What have I done? Did I have a right to do that? I shouldn’t have listened to her. How would I explain this to her family?
On a small table next to the chair was a hardcover Bible. The cover was a faded, red, coarse linen wrapped around cardboard. The pages were separating from the binding. I started flipping through its unfamiliar pages. I didn’t know what I was looking for, other than some kind of comfort. I began reading a little bit, and stumbled onto a passage about a woman named Rachel who died while giving birth to her child. I stood up, close the book hard and threw on the table. The throw was a bit too much and it slid off the table and onto the floor, where I left it.
I come to you for comfort and you give me that, God? Thanks for nothing.
I started to pace in the hallway until it felt like a week had gone by. Cheryl finally emerged from the room. Before she could say anything, they were wheeling Jennifer out of the room. There were machines and IVs riding alongside her.
“She’s in a coma,” Cheryl said softly and almost matter-of-factly. “I honestly can’t tell you much more than that. She could be there for hours or months. We have no way of knowing right now.” Then she simply turned and walked away from me.
I only found comfort in what she didn’t say. She didn’t say they lost her. She didn’t say ‘we did all we could, but...’ Jennifer was still alive and that was enough to sustain me. If I had to wait months, then so be it. I could handle months. I couldn’t handle an eternity without her.
Chapter Twenty
I pulled a chair from the hallway into Jennifer’s room and put it next to the bed. I was drained as I sat there looking at her and listening to the rhythmic clicking and humming of the machines that were keeping her alive. The respirator tube was pushing her lips forward and was taped in place around her mouth. Wires from the monitors snaked out of the arm of her gown and IV tubes were jammed into her right hand and arm.
I took hold of her left hand and kissed it. Trying not to choke up, I said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jennifer. Please don’t leave me.” I pressed my cheek against her hand before letting go and sitting back. For the next two hours, I did my best to will her out of the coma, but nothing I said or did or any mental telepathy I tried could break the rhythm of the machines.
A young nurse came into the room and gently told me that visiting hours were over and that I had to go.
“Get out of here,” I said sternly.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but you have to leave.”
“I said get out of here!” I shouted. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She left, and then returned less than a minute later with Cheryl. The nurse stayed by the door while Cheryl walked up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” she said softly. “I know you want to be with her, but you can’t stay.”
“Leave me alone,” I told her without taking my eyes off Jennifer.
“Why don’t you go down to maternity and take a look at those two beautiful children of yours?”
“I’d rather hold my wife’s hand than look at them through a window.”
She let that sit for a moment. “I’m sorry for doubting you when we first met. You obviously love and care for Jennifer a great deal.”
“More than you or anyone could ever know,” I said before continuing, “More than I even knew or realized.” I finally turned my head and looked at Cheryl. “I cannot lose her.”
“I know, but if she’s going to recover, it won’t be because you’re sitting here or not sitting here,” she said.
“If she is going to die, I refuse to let her die alone in a hospital room. And if she recovers, I want to be here when she does.”
“That could be months. You can’t be here every second of every day.”
“Watch me,” I said.
I was trying Cheryl’s patience, but she remained friendly and professional. “How about if I arrange some time for you to hold your babies? There’s a private room just for that on the maternity unit. It’s after normal hours for that, but I’ll talk to the nurses and make it happen. Come on.”
“Thank you, but I can’t leave her. I just can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t know how.”
Cheryl sighed and motioned to the nurse to leave the room, and walked out behind her. She returned a minute or two later, accompanied by a security guard. The guard stood next to my chair.
“Sir. Visiting hours are over. You have to leave,” he said. “Sir,” he said and reached for my arm.
I batted his hand away. “Don’t you freakin’ touch me.”
“Calm down,” Cheryl said, stepping toward me.
“You think I’m afraid of some rent-a-cop?” I said as cocky as a man could say it.
He probably heard that one too many times. “Let’s go,” he said angrily.
As soon as I got to my feet, I threw a roundhouse right and caught his chin. He shook it off and came after me. He tried to wrap his arms around me, but ended up pushing me backwards. I fell backwards over the corner of Jennifer’s bed and landed on my side on the floor.
“Stop!” Cheryl shouted.
Almost as soon as I hit the floor, he was on top of me, wrapping his arm around my neck and bearing his weight down on me. I squirmed and fought the best I could, but I couldn’t break his grip.
“The rent-a-cop says it’s time to go,” he said. He pulled me up to my knees and then to my feet. I tried one more time to free myself by shoving him, but he didn’t budge and then he strengthened his grip on me. I threw one more punch that landed on his shoulder. He had enough. He grunted and shoved me hard up against the wall. My head bounced off the wall and he put his forearm across my throat.
“That’s enough,” Cheryl said. I stopped resisting and then out of nowhere, I just started crying, just as hard as I did that first time at Chelsea’s grave.
“Let him go,” Cheryl demanded. When he relaxed and let me go, Cheryl took me into her arms.
“What did I do?” I said as I nearly fell into Cheryl’s arms. “Why did I tell you to save the baby?”
Cheryl propped me up. “You did exactly what Jennifer wanted you to do. You know that.”
“I can’t lose her. I can’t go through this again.”
“She’s going to be all right. She’s in very good hands,” Cheryl said. “Come on. Let’s go see those babies.”
“Fine,” I said, finally resigned to the fact that I couldn’t stay with Jennifer.
We made our way up to the maternity ward, mostly in silence. At the large window looking into the room where all of the newborns were on display for fathers and other relatives, I looked for my son and daughter. Cheryl pointed to them near the corner. They were situated next to each other. Cheryl guided me to a private room.
Two nurses wheeled in the sterile metal and Plexiglass bassinets bearing the babies and, for the first time, I was face-to-face with them. Cheryl reached in and scooped up my son, who was wrapped in a blue blanket, sporting a matching knit cap and sleeping. She told me to sit and then gently lowered him into my arms. The course of one’s life can change in an instant, even if that change had been brewing for nine months.
He weighed just seven and-a-half pounds, which felt odd to hold, and I clumsily tried to maneuver my arms to figure out how to best hold him. The weight of the responsibility she placed into my arms was crushing. That feeling I experienced when I first heard his heartbeat with the ultrasound was jolting to my default selfish nature. Watching his birth and cutting his cord nearly brought me to my knees. But now, holding him and recognizing his complete dependency on Jennifer and me suddenly shook me. I had no idea what I was doing, and then realized that if Jennifer died, this tiny, helpless human being would be completely dependent on me and me alone. It terrified and saddened me to the point that I stood up and handed him back to Cheryl. “Take him,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I can’t do this. I can’t do this alone.”
“You won’t have to do it alone. You will have your f
amily and friends.”
“You don’t understand. I have no one. My parents are dead. I have no brothers or sisters. I only had friends when I was mayor and they were just people I accumulated through political favors. I have no favors to offer anyone now,” I said. “These kids will have no one.”
Cheryl seemed at a loss at first but then offered, “Jennifer is going to make it through. She will be with you.”
“I wish you could guarantee that.”
She looked to the floor. “I can’t,” she said, and then lifted her head to look into my eyes. “But she is strong and will come out of that coma.”
“And what if you’re wrong? And what about in the meantime? I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You are going to be a great father. The very fact that you are worried about it says a lot,” she said in a comforting voice. “Now sit back down and say hello to your daughter.”
I did as she lifted the baby from her crib. My daughter started to cry a bit when she was disturbed, but quieted down immediately when Cheryl placed her into my arms. Her brown eyes were wide open and looking right at me inquisitively. “Can she see me?” I asked Cheryl.
“Hold her about twelve inches away and she’ll see you perfectly,” she said.
“She’s not taking her eyes off of me.”
“And you’re not taking that smile off of your face.”
I put my finger into her hand and she gripped it surprisingly well, still not taking her eyes off me or closing them. “She has quite a grip,” I said.
“Maybe she’s thanking you,” Cheryl said. I looked at her and choked up, and returned my stare at my daughter.
“So what’s her name?” Cheryl continued, trying to save me from breaking down again.
“Not sure. We only talked about it briefly. The deal was that she would name our son and I would name our daughter.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“I have one in mind, but I want to run it by Jennifer first.”
“Not fair. You’re not going to tell me?
“Not before I tell my wife, that’s for sure.”
“You’re a good husband,” Cheryl said genuinely. “You need to go home and rest, though. Visiting hours start again tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“I can’t leave.”
“You can and you will. That security guard is just a pager away. Don’t make me use it.”
“There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep. I don’t feel right leaving.”
Cheryl remained firm and that was what I needed. Leaving that hospital was among the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt like I was abandoning my wife and children. Who was I to be sleeping in a warm bed with all of the comforts of home, while my family lie in a hospital? I should be in Jennifer’s place. My life should be dependent on machines. I did nothing. I am nothing.
As I pulled into the driveway, I received two emails from Ed. He and Rick were getting nervous about the acceptance speech. We were only three weeks from the convention and it was only half-done. At first, I was irritated, but then I welcomed the distraction. I sat in the car and read both emails. Rick was looking for sharper language.
Ed expressed concern about the matchup between a senator and a governor. Senators don’t have to do a thing, Ed wrote. They are not held responsible for anything. They can sit on the sidelines and shoot off their mouths. That’s what they do. Governors have to show results. Governors are judged on results from day one. They have to actually accomplish something. Governors have to work with a legislature. Governors have to work with both parties to reach a compromise. Senators don’t have to accomplish anything or compromise. I know the people who are working on Peters’ campaign. They are going to hit Rick hard on this. We need to pull out the big guns and crucify Peters, starting with the convention speech. No holds barred. Subtle but unmistakable.
Ed
P.S. Hope your wife’s ok
There was no better way to get my mind at least a little disengaged from Jennifer and the babies than diving head first into writing a political speech. And that I did. Each sentence I wrote was one less thought of Jennifer lying in that hospital bed. By five o’clock in the morning, I completed the speech and sent it to Ed. I spent the next two hours re-reading and editing what I had written. It would have been senseless to try to sleep at that point since visiting hours were just three hours away and I still had to shower, get ready and eat. I stayed awake and got started on a full pot of coffee.
The rain was heavy as I made my way to the hospital. As soon as the clock turned to ten o’clock, I walked down the hall of the ICU and into Jennifer’s room. I took the chair and positioned it, again, facing Jennifer about halfway down the bed. I sat down and held her hand.
I brought a book, smartphone, and a writing pad to keep me occupied, but it was hard to concentrate on any of them for long. The dreariness of the day did not help me fight off sleep as I watched Jennifer lie there, unresponsive and at the mercy of the latest technology. A nurse was kind enough to bring me a large foam cup of crushed ice, which I used to rub on my face in those times that my head would drop and my eyelids grew too heavy.
It was a little after three o’clock when the rain finally stopped. Before long, the sun poked through the clouds and brightened the room a bit. I turned and looked out the window to see the rooftops of the houses and small shops glistening from the day’s rain. In the distant sky, a faint rainbow appeared.
For the next three hours I answered emails from Ed and promised to have another speech ready for Rick. He was scheduled to address a national conference of one of the country’s largest abortion rights groups later the following week. When visiting hours ended at six, I raced up to the maternity floor and held my kids and even fed them with a bottle for the very first time. At eight o’clock sharp I went back down to ICU and sat with Jennifer.
The sun was setting on her second day in the coma and my fear began to grow. The longer she remained in that state, the chances of her recovering quickly and fully dwindled. At least that’s what Google told me. I had read that patients in such a state can hear, although they wouldn’t be aware of what they were hearing or from whom it was coming. Nor would they be able to react. I didn’t care. If there were any possibility of her hearing me I was going to take advantage of it. I held her hand and spoke to her.
“Jennifer, please don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone. I don’t just mean raising the kids. I mean life itself. Less than a year ago, I didn’t even know you and now I can’t handle life without you. When we met that night, in my selfishness, I didn’t even care who you were or even what your name was. All my shallow eyes could see was that you were hot. That was the word that went through my mind when I saw you. I never realized how cheap that word was until now. I hate that word now. Everything I said to you that night, trying to get one and only one thing from you, and everything I did—everything we did— that night only cheapened you. I thought of you only as an object for my pleasure and was perfectly fine to put you back for someone else. I cheated myself out of knowing you first and how much better being with you would have been had I shown you the respect you deserved. When I think of that night, and everything I know about you now, all I want to do is go back and stop myself from doing what I did. I hate that guy who treated you that way.
“When we had those first two dinners together at your place, I thought you were a lunatic. I thought, ‘How could someone just say that we were going to get married and we were going to love each other? That’s nuts.’ That was only because I was wearing blinders. I was only thinking of myself. Now, here we are—married and I couldn’t love you more. How you can possibly love a miserable wretch like me is one of life’s great mysteries. I’ve done nothing to deserve that love. And all this time I’ve been wrestling with your uncompromising ways. Now I see why you said everything you said and did everything you did. Everything was for our children. The demands you made of me had nothing to do with control or with either
of us. Everything you did was for the benefit of the kids. I see that now. I finally see that. All you do is for them. I’ve never met anyone so truly selfless as you, to the point that you were prepared to literally lay down your life for your children. How many parents claim they would do that? You actually did. I look at that kind of selflessness and can’t help but be shown my own selfishness. It’s shameful that I can’t seem to shake that.